I am angry.
I am angry. Really angry.
At me and you. And I don’t do anger.
I will tell you that I never have.
Because angry isn’t pretty. It’s not palatable. It’s not practical.
And it isn’t nice. To look at, to witness, to experience or to face.
But anger, like me is real. Very real.
It’s an inconvenient status and a hard human truth. But we don’t like it, individually or as a societal group.
We shame young people for expressing pubescence inappropriately.
We roll our eyes at children in cafes interrupting our caffeine in alternative milk.
We shift uncomfortably in our seats as we watch the news of chaos ensuing, as we point fingers at poor parenting when it all goes horribly and devastatingly wrong.
We deplore the awfulness of one of our basic most human emotions.
We deny its existence and its right to awkwardly exist. We condemn and cajole as we segregate and divide.
Justified and defended, as long as we are on the “right side of this binary happy/not happy town.”
And as a woman, it somehow always feels worse.
Judged. Condemned. Wrong.
Because men are the angry ones. Men carry the weight of the world on their chiselled shoulders. Men have it hardest. Men need to release, and we all need to understand that’s just how it is.
Between genders. Between sexes. Between Venus and Mars and the universal world of differences that separate us and keep us continued, alone.
I’ve spent my life being nice.
Like really nice. Sickly sweet, I want to puke, nauseatingly nice.
Because nice is nice, right?
Nice is pretty, palatable, practical, right?
Nice is feminine, sweet, pleasant, petite. Right?
Nice is acceptable, appropriate, just the right weight and height, right?
Nice means you’ll like me, treat me well, respect me, look me in the eye and not lie to me, or f$&k me over, right?
Nice means you’ll pay me what I’m worth, protect me and my position, do your job and support me to do mine the best I can, right?
Nice is knowing you’ve got my back when I go on leave, that you won’t be part of a coup to topple me, that you’ll refuse to pack up my office and leave my possessions on my doorstep after multiple years of service to your charity, twice, right?
Nice is not stealing my shot at success or my righthand topspin forehand winning drive because you’re physically taller and stronger at pickleball, right?
Nice is no longer being real, being ready or being raw. Nice is no longer the new frontier or the foreign aid that saves the day and papers over the cracks of what’s really going on, what we all need to face.
So I’m angry. Really angry.
I am angry. Really angry.
At me and you. And I don’t do anger.
I will tell you that I never have.
Because angry isn’t pretty. It’s not palatable. It’s not practical.
And it isn’t nice. To look at, to witness, to experience or to face.
But anger, like me is real. Very real.
It’s an inconvenient status and a hard human truth. But we don’t like it, individually or as a societal group.
We shame young people for expressing pubescence inappropriately.
We roll our eyes at children in cafes interrupting our caffeine in alternative milk.
We shift uncomfortably in our seats as we watch the news of chaos ensuing, as we point fingers at poor parenting when it all goes horribly and devastatingly wrong.
We deplore the awfulness of one of our basic most human emotions.
We deny its existence and its right to awkwardly exist. We condemn and cajole as we segregate and divide.
Justified and defended, as long as we are on the “right side of this binary happy/not happy town.”
And as a woman, it somehow always feels worse.
Judged. Condemned. Wrong.
Because men are the angry ones. Men carry the weight of the world on their chiselled shoulders. Men have it hardest. Men need to release, and we all need to understand that’s just how it is.
Between genders. Between sexes. Between Venus and Mars and the universal world of differences that separate us and keep us continued, alone.
I’ve spent my life being nice.
Like really nice. Sickly sweet, I want to puke, nauseatingly nice.
Because nice is nice, right?
Nice is pretty, palatable, practical, right?
Nice is feminine, sweet, pleasant, petite. Right?
Nice is acceptable, appropriate, just the right weight and height, right?
Nice means you’ll like me, treat me well, respect me, look me in the eye and not lie to me, or f$&k me over, right?
Nice means you’ll pay me what I’m worth, protect me and my position, do your job and support me to do mine the best I can, right?
Nice is knowing you’ve got my back when I go on leave, that you won’t be part of a coup to topple me, that you’ll refuse to pack up my office and leave my possessions on my doorstep after multiple years of service to your charity, twice, right?
Nice is not stealing my shot at success or my righthand topspin forehand winning drive because you’re physically taller and stronger at pickleball, right?
Nice is no longer being real, being ready or being raw. Nice is no longer the new frontier or the foreign aid that saves the day and papers over the cracks of what’s really going on, what we all need to face.
So I’m angry. Really angry.
And I promise to do my best to make it less awkward and ugly for me and for you.
I’ll commit to containing the bits that fall out of me, that taste metallic or slightly sour because all beings struggle to be caged, chained and forced to milk. Unconsenting and against their will.
I’ll attempt to appease you and make it look surface level ok for us all, but hear clearly as I say this in my least angry of tones.
As I stake and reclaim my humanness in its full and total glory, terrain and territory.
That I’ll no longer pretend to care as much or wear masks of denial to hide my most basic emotions so that we both feel a little better.
Instead, I’ll offer a compromise, a new way of working, a radical strategy and unexpected plan.
We’ll work together to end the scourge and spread of the dis-ease of being nice all the time, with a universally endorsed vaccine with “allowance and support to be fully human” on the label, and the permission to take a dose as often as is humanly necessary and reality requires.
H2BH 003/365
